


It's All For Appearances

by ChaoticGoodIntentions



Category: Original Work
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-02
Updated: 2018-06-02
Packaged: 2019-05-17 10:56:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14830976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChaoticGoodIntentions/pseuds/ChaoticGoodIntentions
Summary: I've never posted any of my writing online before because for all I read fanfiction, I've never actually written any, and this is a site for fanfiction. But I've seen one or two other people post independent pieces with "Original Work" under Fandom, and since I've been wanting more insights about my writing recently, I figured I'd post this anyway. If you can spare a few moments, please comment your thoughts on it, whether they're positive or negative, so I can hear your feedback and think of how I might incorporate your suggestions that into future stories. This was originally titled "The Gala" and it's pretty much nothing like the first version I wrote.Real quick- If you enjoy Batfam fanfics, look up Misha Berry (MishaDerps). Her writing is amazing, and she's currently working on a piece "Blood in the Water" that I check for updates pretty much every day. Her other longer piece, Juneberries, is also absolutely worth a read. She updates fairly quickly and regularly, so yeah, if you like Batfam fics, look her up, she's my hands-down favorite Archive of our Own author and she does commissions.With that said, I dearly hope you enjoy reading this. Have an wonderful day!~ ChaoticGoodIntentions





	It's All For Appearances

**Author's Note:**

> I've never posted any of my writing online before because for all I read fanfiction, I've never actually written any, and this is a site for fanfiction. But I've seen one or two other people post independent pieces with "Original Work" under Fandom, and since I've been wanting more insights about my writing recently, I figured I'd post this anyway. If you can spare a few moments, please comment your thoughts on it, whether they're positive or negative, so I can hear your feedback and think of how I might incorporate your suggestions that into future stories. This was originally titled "The Gala" and it's pretty much nothing like the first version I wrote. 
> 
> Real quick- If you enjoy Batfam fanfics, look up Misha Berry (MishaDerps). Her writing is amazing, and she's currently working on a piece "Blood in the Water" that I check for updates pretty much every day. Her other longer piece, Juneberries, is also absolutely worth a read. She updates fairly quickly and regularly, so yeah, if you like Batfam fics, look her up, she's my hands-down favorite Archive of our Own author and she does commissions.
> 
> With that said, I dearly hope you enjoy reading this. Have an wonderful day!
> 
> ~ ChaoticGoodIntentions

Dim, fractured light glows from the crystal chandelier. Low, elegant music plays in the background, mingled with the tinkling of expensive glasses. Socialites of important status converse about intelligent matters with personas of polite dignity carefully crafted in every step, every word, and every prim bite of a bruschetta. Everyone wears formal, flattering clothing except the servers, who carry trays of fancy treats and glasses of high-end beverages noiselessly. My father stands on one side of the great room, engaged in a pleasant conversation with a businessman he doesn’t particularly care for and whose favor he needs. They both maintain a flawless air of casualness, and Father occasionally brings his glass of champagne to his lips and takes a drink, all with perfect timing.

Father hates champagne.

I peer at the golden clock on the wall, watching the delicate hands as they approach midnight and wishing they’d do it faster. The event won’t end until long after then, but every second brings that end closer nonetheless. Watching the clock is practically a tradition. When I was younger, I hated the semiannual galas my parents held because I wasn’t allowed to attend.

Now, I hate them because I'm required to attend.

11:49.

I am standing alone in the corner of the great room, watching the crowd from an acceptable distance. I wear a long, layered, cream and peach dress with gossamer fabric and cuffed sleeves so long, only my fingertips emerge. I have on a tastefully styled brown bolero and, hidden under the layers of skirts, pale cream heels I can feel pinching my toes uncomfortably. My brunet hair is braided into a single ringlet pinned at the back of my head, but a few wisps have escaped and dangle by the side of my jaw. I feel them tickling my cheek, sticking in the make up my mother helped me apply earlier this evening.

Right now, Mother stands a little way off from Father, extending pleasantries to a small cluster of women. Her dark hair hangs straight down. She wears a gown a deep blue, almost black below her torso, and above that a crisp snow white. The sleeves are translucent, flowing, and end at her elbows, where her thin silk gloves begin.

Mother thinks silk gloves feel like cobwebs. She loathes them.

A shard of light glints off a thick gold bracelet jangling on a woman’s wrist as she turns to accept a scallop from a server. I exercise willpower to keep from squinting. The exchange is brief, she lowers her arm, and the brightness relents. I manage to restrain myself from raising a hand to rub the blurry spots from my eyes.

My heels are making my feet ache. I detest heels. If I could, I’d go barefoot everywhere. I suppress the urge to shift and keep my face schooled to a friendly, vacant neutrality.

My gaze flits to the clock and then passes over the socialites, over the way they walk, talk, eat, and drink. Their smiles, their clothing, the precise ways they move their hands.

None of it matters.

It’s all for appearances, anyway.

11:56.

I had a dream, once, in which the galas where not galas at all, but masquarade balls. Everyone adorned elegant masks with gauzy veils, and I couldn’t tell who anyone else was. Everybody spoke in a soft, composed hum. At first, I had worn no mask. I was exposed, vulnerable. Heads turned and empty eyes stared. I remember that part of the dream well.

By the end, though, I had a mask too, and nobody paid me any extra mind. I was one of the many actors in a grand play, calculating each action to slide smoothly into the rest.

I recall that dream now, as I watch a pair of wealthy businesspeople engage in a battle of wits and wills disguised as an only mildy engaging conversion. It wasn’t far off, I think. I vaguely wonder who, precisely, their audience is, who they are all putting on this preformance for. Is it the world outside, who see their faces on magazines and their names on the television, but never see them? Is it each other? Is it themselves?

It is late, and I am tired and, perhaps, I am not thinking straight.

I am young yet, and not thinking straight is still a luxery I can afford. At sixteen, I am not consumed by the act. I haven’t weaved together the watertight personality that will one day be expected of me. I don’t fulfill the duties of my fabricated character unprompted, concealing all traces of myself behind the person I am supposed to be for the occasion.

I suppose I will someday, though.  
I suppose it is my birthright.

The clock reads 12:00. I take a long look at the people wearing masks under their faces.

Around me, high society individuals project ideas of themselves that blend together with practiced grace. The soft tinkling of wine glasses mingle with the low music, and the guests make a quiet buzz of dignified chatter. Father sips champagne and Mother makes dainty little hand gestures with her thin silk gloves.

None of it matters.

It’s all for appearances, anyway.

The clock ticks past midnight, and the show goes on.


End file.
